


The Adventure Of The Thieving Son (1876)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [9]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Destiel - Freeform, Framing Story, Gangsters, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Russia, Theft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-11 15:11:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10467915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Case 6: Holmes quotes something from the thirteenth century (the show-off!) and manages to both succeed and fail in fulfilling his client's request for help.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [supersockie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/supersockie/gifts).



> Mentioned elsewhere as 'the case of the old Russian woman'.

One of the many things that I was asked most frequently during my long years with my blue-eyed genius was as to how he survived for so long whilst putting away people who, along with their families, would often kill or order killed (even amongst said families) in the same way most people would leave a note for the milkman requesting an extra pint. Part of the answer lay in this early case which involved a famous painting, a group of gangsters, and a matter where Holmes was asked to prove the innocence of a man's son, and duly did. Yet he also did not. It was very Holmes.

+~+~+

It was December, in the Year of our Lord eighteen hundred and seventy-six, and London was getting ready for Christmas. Winter had come early that year, and the previous weeks having been uncommonly busy at the surgery, I was rewarding myself with a rare week off from both my studies and my surgery work. I was sat by the fire reading my favourite book, “A Christmas Carol” by Charles Dickens, when Holmes surprised me with a question.

“How do you feel about art, doctor?”

I looked up, wondering what had brought this on.

“I do not really feel much about it”, I admitted. “It is not something I have a great deal of time for, in my profession.”

“Have you read about the forthcoming exhibition at the National Gallery?”

I nodded. Relations between Great Britain and Russia were, for once, tolerable (although if the Bear kept sniffing around the ailing Ottoman Empire, that rapport would be short-lived), and as a result several notable Russian émigrés had got together to put on an exhibition of their various collected artworks at the Gallery. 

What I did not see, however, was why a display of Russian artistry should interest a consulting detective. He obviously saw my point, judging by his next words.

“A certain Mr. Richard Khrushnic has asked me to call round to his house, to investigate the theft of a painting from his collection”, Holmes explained. “A painting that he had intended to loan to the Gallery, for the exhibition. It is called “The Two Ladies”.”

Despite my cultural ignorance, I did actually know the painting to which he was referring, because I had seen a copy of it on display at one of my patients' houses. It was one of those strange drawings where, depending on how you looked at it, you either saw a beautiful young woman or a disfigured old crone. A child's plaything perhaps, but the artist had done much more with it, using the background either side of the figure to show pictures from old and modern Russia. It was a small thing, barely bigger than the book I was holding, but artfully crafted.

“Another case, then”, I said, trying to keep the hope out of my voice. 

He seemed to hesitate. My face fell.

“I would love to have your company on this or any case”, he said carefully. “However, this particular one has certain.... difficulties which may preclude your involvement.”

“Too politically sensitive, you mean?” I hazarded. He sighed.

“What I mean”, he said slowly, “is that you will probably not approve of my client.”

I was surprised.

“Because he is Russian?” I asked curiously.

“No”, Holmes said. “Because he is one of the top crime lords in the city of London.”

I stared at him, aghast.

“And you are still taking the case?” I protested. 

He looked at me meaningfully.

“'To no-one will we delay or refuse justice'”, he said softly. 

I recognized the quote from Magna Carta, but even so, I still felt that this was wrong in some way.

“That was what I meant”, Holmes explained. “You are righteous and good-hearted, and this case involves some of the lowest of society. I would still prefer to have your company, of course, but shall quite understand if you would prefer not to involve yourself.”

I thought about it for a moment. Damn the man, he was right! The test of any truly civilized society was whether they gave justice to all, regardless of status. Once those in power began picking and choosing who was 'deserving' of justice, it was the start of a very slippery slope. Though I would never have admitted it, I had to admire Holmes for agreeing to take the case.

“I am in”, I said firmly. 

He looked at me uncertainly for a moment as if doubting my keenness, but then effected one of his almost-smiles. He looked almost angelic at times like that.

“Very well”, he said. “The facts of the case are, on the surface, seemingly straightforward. Three days ago my client, Mr. Richard Khrushnic, was visited at his London mansion by his youngest son, Gregor, who lives just a few streets away. The father was out at the time, and returned to find his famous painting missing. He immediately sent two men round to his son's flat, where they duly found the painting.”

I looked at him expectantly, but apparently that was it.

“You said 'seemingly'”, I said, clutching at the one straw on offer. “You do not believe that the son took the painting?”

Holmes sighed.

“Mr. Khrushnic plans to lend the painting to the exhibition in five days' time”, he said. “I am following a line of reasoning which, if it holds true, would make that something of a deadline.”

“Did the son admit to it when he was caught?” I asked.

“He denied it point blank”, Holmes told me. “He could not however explain as to how the painting had come to be in his house.”

“Who saw that the painting was missing?” I asked.

“One of the maids”, Holmes said. “She went into the gallery to clean there, and saw the gap on the wall where the painting had been.”

“And you are taking the case on principle?” I asked. Holmes smiled.

“Mr. Gregor Khrushnic is the younger of the two sons”, he said, “so as a younger son myself I may be a little biased. But Mr. Khrushnic is himself dubious as to his son's guilt, and in his, ahem, business, instinct can often be the difference between survival and a terminal dip in Old Father Thames. I have said that I will call round there at ten o'clock tomorrow morning. Would you be able to accompany me?”

“Gladly”, I smiled.

His eyes crinkled at the edges as he gave me a full smile. He was so different when he did that.

+~+~+

One of the (many) good things about Holmes was that, in the cold months, he somehow managed to turn into a walking heater. I sometimes wondered if he was human, in that whilst everyone else was shivering in the December snows, the man sat next to me in the cab was radiating heat like a mini-furnace. 

In describing Mr. Khrushnic's house as a mansion, I felt that Holmes had if anything been understating the case. It occupied most of one side of one of the city's quieter tree-lined squares, but at least the front was fairly tasteful. A disdainful footman admitted us, and took us into a small waiting-room whilst he took Holmes' card to his master. He came swiftly back, looking at us as if we had not really improved his opinion of us, and we were duly admitted.

Mr. Khrushnic was an unremarkable man, about forty-five years of age, slightly portly and clearly fighting a losing battle with hair loss, but also possessed of a pair of sharp brown eyes which zeroed in on me. 

“My friend, Doctor Watson”, Holmes said smoothly.

My presence was clearly unwelcome, but before the man could object, Holmes asked a surprising question.

“Your footman is Russian?”

Mr. Khrushnic blinked, his objection to my presence forgotten.

“Two of them are, but not Feodor”, he said. 

“Then why does he have a Russian name?” Holmes asked. Mr. Khrushnic shrugged his shoulders.

“He told me that he was christened Theodore”, he said, “but took the Russian version of that name because of his Russian mother. I believed you were summonsed here to help investigate a missing painting, rather than to inquire into the ancestry of my staff?”

“Indeed”, Holmes said. “I think I would like to see it before proceeding any further, if that is all right?”

Mr. Khrushnic nodded, stood and led the way out of the room. After a considerable walk, we found ourselves in a long gallery, with the picture in question hanging on the wall immediately to our right. Unfortunately I could not make out much of it as Holmes was almost immediately right up to it, to the obvious concern of our host. The detective even sniffed at it dubiously, before straightening up. There was a distinctly knowing smile on his face.

“I think we should go back to your room, sir”, he said courteously. “There are a number of questions that I would wish to ask, which may help in the solving of the case.”

“Do you believe that Gregor is guilty?” the man asked, sounding almost fearful.

Holmes did not answer until we were safely back in the room we had started from, then he turned to our host.

“More to the point, why do _you_ think that he is not?” he countered. “The facts, such as they are, seem to be all against him.”

Mr. Khrushnic reddened.

“In my line of business”, he said flatly, “I like to play my gut feeling. It once stopped me from walking into a warehouse where three men were waiting to kill me, so I am rather attached to it. Despite all the facts being, as you said, all against him , this just feels _wrong_ somehow.”

Holmes nodded.

“I would like to speak to your son”, he said firmly. 

“I thought that you might”, the man said. “He is waiting upstairs. I shall have him summoned.”

He rang a bell, and a few moments later a servant showed in Gregor Khrushnic. He was an unprepossessing, reedy young blond man, with a weak chin and a most unfortunate attempt at a moustache. He looked at us fearfully.

“I have just two questions for you”, Holmes said crisply. “Firstly, did anyone know you were coming round to the house on the day of the theft?”

The man nodded, then looked fearfully at his father.

“Mrs. Wells knew, sir.”

“My housekeeper?” his father asked, clearly astonished. His son turned to him.

“I wanted to discuss something..... delicate, father”, he said carefully. “I chanced to meet her in the park last week, and she recommended coming yesterday because she was making your favourite apple and rhubarb pie.”

“The way to a man's heart!” I chuckled.

All three looked hard at me. I shut up, though I made a quiet mental note to see if I could speak with the cook about that pie. It might be critical to the whole case!

Holmes nodded, seemingly satisfied with the young man's answer, although he shot me a knowing look for some reason.

“Secondly", he said, "I would like to examine the ring that you are wearing.”

That surprised even me. The young man looked appealingly at his father, but the latter shrugged his shoulders and gestured for him to hand it over. Holmes watched him closely all the while, and looked only briefly at the ring before handing it back with a smile.

“Thank you”, he said politely. “You may go.”

The young man looked to his father, who nodded his permission. I wondered what all that had been about. 

“The case is almost complete”, Holmes said, much to my astonishment, “but I have one more request to make of you, sir. One which you may well find impertinent.”

“Hit me with it”, our host said gruffly.

“I wish to see your will.”

“You what!” the man shouted.

“Please do not over-excite yourself, Mr. Khrushnic”, Holmes said patiently. “I have most of what I need to prove who the guilty party is in this matter, and your will is, I believe, the final link in the chain.”

The man looked angry, but eventually seemed to relent and crossed to a bureau where he extracted a key from his pocket and unlocked a small drawer. Taking out a sheaf of papers, he handed them over to the detective, who carefully read through them before handing them back. 

“If you are thinking that my other son Ivan was involved in this mess, then think again”, the man said firmly. “He is away on business in Hull, and will not be back until the weekend.”

“My thoughts were not actually running along those lines”, Holmes said. “I believe that I have now solved the case, although I am not quite sure that you will like the solution. I shall however need you to do something to help matters go forward.”

“What is that?”

“An hour or so after our departure, inform your staff that you are closing this place up and moving to your house in the country”, Holmes said. “Say that you are leaving at nine o'clock tomorrow morning. Doctor Watson and I will be here at precisely eight thirty.”

“You are coming with me?” he asked. Holmes chuckled.

“Not exactly”, he said. “But I promise you a resolution within half an hour of our arrival. Good day, sir.”

He stood up, and I hurriedly rose to follow him out of the room.

+~+~+

“If that man is one of the top criminals in the city”, I reasoned as we went home in our cab, “then surely it is not wise to make him wait?”

Holmes sighed.

“I fear that Mr. Khrushnic is in for a most unpleasant surprise tomorrow”, he said ruefully. “”But at least he will have his painting.”

“He does have his painting”, I pointed out.

“A fake”, Holmes said dryly.

“What?” I exclaimed.

“I would draw your attention to three things”, he said. “The footman who showed us in, the three birds flying into the wide blue yonder, and the wording of Mr. Khrushnic's will.”

Only you read that”, I objected.

“His estate is split between his sons of his blood body, save that if a beneficiary is convicted of a crime and in jail at the time of his death, then they do not inherit.”

I stared at him.

“So you are saying that Mr. Ivan Khrushnic.....”

“Hull does have a railway station with fast trains to London, my dear fellow”, Holmes smiled. “Ah, we are home.”

+~+~+

I had an essay for my degree that I had to read through one last time before submitting, so I was looking forward to a quiet evening in front of a blazing fire, with the firm hope that Holmes' violin would remain in its case. However, we were met in the lobby by our landlady, and my heart sank when she informed us that the fire in our room would be out of commission that evening, as the chimney that it led to was blocked, and a sweep could not be obtained until the following day. I was used to changing into my pyjamas and dressing-gown if I was done going out at all, but if our Russian day was to be accompanied by a Siberian night, I decided to remain fully clothed. I got my essay out and started to work on it.

Holmes came upstairs after me a few moments later, and bless the man if he did not sit next to me on the couch, radiating a blissful heat. He had his own book under a blanket, but somehow I found myself snuggling underneath it with him, leaning up against his smaller frame and all but burrowing into his side. When I had finished, I carefully placed the essay to one side and just lay there, enjoying the heat.....

I woke some time later to find I was even warmer, and blinked at my friend in confusion. The fire before us was now blazing merrily away, and I had no idea what time it was, though it must have been well past my bedtime.

“What?” I managed.

“I pulled a few strings to get us a sweep this evening”, he explained. “He came whilst you were sleeping and cleared the chimney, then the maid came in and laid the fire.”

And the maid had seen me like this, I thought, flushing a bright red. Then again, we were just two friends leaning against each other to conserve heat in a chilly room. Two fully-clothed, quite respectable gentlemen doing absolutely nothing at all untoward.

“Watson?”

“Uh huh?”

He looked pointedly at where my arm was draped around him. Apparently in my sleep I tended to cu... embrace in a manly-like manner. Yes, that was what I had done. I flushed bright red.

Not for the last time, I wondered how he could smirk internally!

+~+~+

On waking the following morning, my disobliging brain immediately made me recall draping myself all over my friend the day before. Fortunately Holmes was his normal pre-coffee incoherent self, and did not comment on my heat-seeking tendencies to.... embrace him in a manly-like manner. 

We arrived promptly at the Khrushnic residence exactly on time to find the place all a-bustle. Bags were heaped up in the hall, and the man himself looked quite exasperated as we were shown in.

“So why am I going to the country, Mr. Holmes?” he demanded. 

“You are not.”

“What?” The man blinked at him.

“You are going nowhere”, Holmes said calmly. “If you take a seat, I will explain. Is your butler to be trusted?”

The man looked at him confusedly.

“Yes”, he said at last, “but why....”

“Kindly summon him, if you please.”

Still looking bewildered, the man rang the bell, and the butler promptly appeared. 

“I would like to give your man an instruction, if I may”, Holmes said.

“Go on”, our host said warily.

Holmes whispered something to the elderly man, who looked surprised.

“That item is in the hall, sir”, he said crisply. 

“Please bring it in here”, Holmes said quietly. 

The butler nodded – clearly a good servant if he was doing whatever strange thing a visitor had requested without asking why – and left. Less than a minute later he was back, hefting a medium-sized bag with some effort, which Holmes took and heaved easily round to behind one of the chairs. 

“The staff are all downstairs having breakfast, as you requested, sir”, the butler intoned.

“As you requested?” Mr Khrushnic demanded, clearly getting annoyed. “What is going on here?”

“I took the liberty of sending a message to your housekeeper to ask if she could serve a late breakfast, so all your staff would be out of the way when I called”, Holmes said.

“Oh you did, did you?” our host asked. He was evidently not pleased.

“Yes”, Holmes said. “Because I shall now tell you about the theft of your painting.”

“Theft and return”, the man corrected.

“No”, Holmes said, and I knew he was enjoying what was about to come. “Just theft. The painting hanging in your gallery is an excellent copy. Done by one of the master copiers in the city, I might add, and probably worth quite a fair sum in its own right, but not a patch on the original.”

The man gaped.

“So I have been robbed! It was Gregor all along!”

Holmes sighed.

“And it really would have been easier if you had told me everything”, he said, almost plaintively. 

“I did....”

“You did not mention that, on the day of the theft, you received a hoax telegram that caused you to have to leave the house”, Holmes said.

The man's jaw dropped. Holmes looked at him.

“I am now in a position to tell you how the crime was accomplished”, he said. He handed a slip of paper to the still stunned man. “Please carry out those instructions to the letter, sir.”

Mr. Khrushnic pulled himself together, read what can only have been a few lines of writing and rang one of the bells. Feodor, the footman who had showed us in the day before, duly appeared. 

“Please fetch Mr. Gregor from upstairs, Feodor”, Mr. Khrushnic said heavily.

The man nodded, and left. Holmes looked pointedly at me, and I understood; he was thinking that the accused might make a run for it. As surreptitiously as possible, I moved over to the door, just in time for there to be a knock swiftly followed by the entrance of Gregor Khrushnic and the footman. Holmes turned to our host.

“I am now in a position to return your property to you, sir”, he said, bowing. “But before I do, I regret that I must cause you some pain. You asked me to investigate whether or not your youngest son stole your painting. I regret to inform you that he did.”

Mr. Gregor Khrushnic gasped.

“Father, I swear that is not true!”

“I am sorry, but it is”, Holmes said, sinking into his chair. He shot a second warning look at me, and I remained on my guard, watching the younger son closely.

“At around two o'clock in the afternoon, Feodor here hands you, Mr. Khrushnic, a telegram. I do not know the contents of that message, but the effect, as desired, was to cause you to leave the house for several hours. That message, as you later discovered, was a hoax, but it was essential that you not be here when your son arrived, and that your absence last long enough for him to go away again.”

“Why?” Mr. Khrushnic demanded. Holmes ignored him.

“At approximately two-thirty, Mr. Gregor Khrushnic leaves his apartment for the ten-minute walk to his father's house”, Holmes began. “He believes that the only person who knows he is coming here is the housekeeper, but as we all know, servants gossip. Importantly, Mr. Gregor is wearing his long coat.”

“Why is that important?” I asked in my turn. Holmes, predictably, ignored me too.

“At approximately twenty minutes to three, Mr. Gregor Khrushnic arrives at the house, and is shown into the waiting-room. He hands his coat to the footman, Feodor here, who takes it and hangs it in the cloakroom – but not before extracting something from it. A set of keys.”

I was almost unprepared for the footman's desperate lunge for the door, but fortunately I was both bigger and stronger than him, and Gregor Khrushnic hurried across to assist me. The two of us soon had him pinned down, much to our host's astonishment.

“Feodor?” he gasped. “But.... that's impossible!”

“Mr. Gregor had mentioned that he was coming here at this time, so your footman arranged for you to be out”, Holmes said. “He also had a copy of the painting made, I would guess by one of London's best copiers, a Mr. Hebediah Woolsford of the Minories. His copies are excellent, but he does insist on always adding his own mark to any copy he does, a small letter 'W'. I have seen the original painting, and I know that it has two birds flying in the distance, not three as your copy has.”

“Then why did you not tell me?” Mr. Khrushnic demanded hotly.

“Because I wished for you to have a good night's sleep”, Holmes said. “In light of what I knew about the case, I thought that you might well need it.”

What did he mean by that, I wondered.

“Feodor slips out with both the fake painting and the keys that he has extracted from Mr. Gregor Khrushnic's coat pocket”, Holmes went on. “A fit man, he can make it to his target's house in five minutes. I dare say he was seen, but of course no-one thought to ask if anyone went into young Mr. Khrushnic's rooms at that time, as all the attention was on this house. Feodor leaves the painting poorly hidden, and races back home. Fortuitously his absence has not been spotted, and no-one has yet told Mr. Gregor that his father is unlikely to return for some hours, so Feodor tells him that, and he leaves. Our criminal then quickly goes to the gallery and takes the real painting from the wall, hiding it in his own room; he knows that apart from when it is cleaned, only the master of the house visits the gallery. When said master returns, he arranges for one of the maids to clean the gallery, knowing that she will immediately see the bare gap on the wall. You, Mr. Khrushnic, send your men round to your son's apartment, and find the copy. Because you are so relieved, you do not think to check if it is a fake which, I am sorry to say, it was.”

Mr. Khrushnic sat in stony silence. Feodor whimpered on the floor between myself and Gregor Khrushnic.

“By advising you to make an immediate move to the country, I forestalled any attempt by the criminal to dispose of the painting”, Holmes explained. “His only hope was to take it with him” - he reached behind the chair for the suitcase, and I saw the footman's face go even whiter - “so I believe that it should be in here.”

He opened the case, and extracted a slim package, which he unwrapped. Sure enough, It was 'The Two Ladies'.

“But you were wrong on one thing”, I pointed out. “You said that the theft had been carried out by the youngest son.”

I stopped. Mr. Khrushnic had gone almost as pale as his footman.

“ _That_ was the motive”, Holmes said quietly. “The will's precise wording was that the estate was to be divided equally between all the sons of the blood body - in other words, all sons regardless of which side of the blanket they were born on. You, Mr. Khrushnic, were not prepared to recognize your actual youngest son's claim, but you did find him employment and, fatally, gave him a signed document recognizing his status. The wording of the will, which he chanced to read one day, meant that he could use that to push a claim to the estate.” He turned to the ashen-faced host. “Sorry I am to say it, sir, but had you pursued charges against Mr. Gregor here, then I fear that both you and your other son would have suffered 'accidents' not long after his incarceration. Mr. Gregor here would have been debarred because of his criminal record, and your.... 'servant' would inherit all.”

Mr. Khrushnic shuddered. 

“What are you going to do?” he managed.

“I am employed by you in merely a private capacity”, Holmes said gently. “The way you choose to deal with what has happened is up to you, sir.” He turned to me. “Doctor, I think that our presence here is no longer required.”

I nodded, and let got of the crumpled footman. We left Mr. Khrushnic and his son – both his sons – in the large, lonely house.

+~+~+

Holmes did not charge our client for his services as such, except to say that he hoped Mr. Khrushnic would make it clear to his 'acquaintances' that he now regarded the detective as a friend, and would not take kindly to any moves against him. I suspect that such an action, considering the many enemies my friend would amass over the coming years, was worth more than any cash payment. Mr. Khrushnic arranged for his 'footman' to be transferred to his sole property back in Russia, an act of leniency which surprised me somewhat. But then, I suppose, blood is thicker than water.

I only later learnt that said property was out in the wilds of Siberia. Apparently blood is not that much thicker. 

+~+~+

In our next case, an ancient find causes all sorts of modern complications. And there are some uncovered asses!


End file.
